The Count rubbed his forehead and pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘Lacci-‘
‘And don’t call me that! You know how I hate that!’
There was a brief scream from one of the lesser vampires behind them. Agnes couldn’t remember his name, it was probably Fenrir or Maledicta or something, but she did recall that he preferred to be known as Gerald. He sagged to his knees, clawing at his throat. None of the other vampires looked very happy, either. A couple of them were kneeling and groaning, to the bewilderment of the citizens.
‘I don’t . . . feel very well,’ said the Countess, swaying slightly. ‘I did say I didn’t think wine was a good idea. . .’
The Count turned and stared at Agnes. She took a step back.
‘It’s you, isn’t it?’ he said.
‘Of course it is!’ moaned Lacrimosa. ‘You know that old woman put her self somewhere, and she must’ve known Vlad was soppy on that lump!’
She’s not in here, is she? said Perdita. Don’t you know? Agnes thought, backing away again. Well, I don’t think she is, but is it me doing the thinking? Look, she’s hidden her self in that priest, we know it. No, we don’t, you just thought that’d be a smart thing for her to do because everyone would think she’s hiding in the baby.
‘Why don’t you just crawl back into your coffin and rot, you slimy little maggot,’ Agnes said. It wasn’t that good, but impromptu insults are seldom well crafted.
Lacrimosa leapt at her, but something else was wrong. Instead of gliding through the air like velvet death she lurched like a bird with a broken wing. But fury let her rear up in front of Agnes, one claw out to scratch-
Agnes hit her as hard as she could and felt Perdita get behind the blow as well. It shouldn’t have been possible for it to connect, the girl was quick enough to run around Agnes three times before it could, but it did.
The people of Escrow watched a vampire stagger back, bleeding.
The mayor raised his head.
Agnes went into a crouch, fists raised.
‘I don’t know where Granny Weatherwax went,’ she said. ‘Maybe she is in here with me, eh?’ A flash of mad inspiration struck her and she added, in Granny’s sharp tones, ‘And if you strike me down again I’ll bite my way up through your boots!’
‘A nice try, Miss Nitt,’ said the Count, striding towards her. ‘But I don’t think so-‘
He stopped, clutching at the gold chain that was suddenly around his neck.
Behind him the mayor hauled on it with all his weight, forcing the vampire to the ground.
The citizens looked at one another, and all moved at once.
Vampires rose into the air, trying to gain height, kicking at clutching hands. Torches were snatched from walls. The night was suddenly full of screams.
Agnes looked up at Vlad, who was staring in horror. Lacrimosa was surrounded by a closing ring of people.
‘You’d better run,’ she said, ‘or they’ll-‘
He turned and lunged, and the last thing she saw was teeth.
The track downhill was worse than the climb. Springs had erupted in every hollow, and every path was a rivulet.
As Granny and oats lurched from mud slough to bog, Oats reflected on the story in the Book Of Om – the story, really – about the prophet Brutha and his journey with Om across the burning desert, which had ended up changing Omnianism for ever. It had replaced swords with sermons, which at least caused fewer deaths except in the case of the really very long ones, and had broken the Church into a thousand pieces which had then started arguing with one another and finally turned out Oats, who argued with himself.
Oats wondered how far across the desert Brutha would have got if he’d been trying to support Granny Weatherwax. There was something unbending about her, something hard as rock. By about halfway the blessed prophet might, he felt guiltily, have yielded to the temptation to . . . well, at least say something unpleasant, or give a meaningful sigh. The old woman had got very crotchety since being warmed up. She seemed to have something on her mind.
The rain had stopped but the wind was sharp, and there were still occasional stinging bursts of hail.
‘Won’t be long now,’ he panted.
‘You don’t know that,’ said Granny, splashing through black, peaty mud.
‘No, you’re absolutely right,’ said Oats. ‘I was just saying that to be cheerful.’
‘Hasn’t worked,’ said Granny.
‘Mistress Weatherwax, would you like me to leave you here?’ said Oats.
Granny sniffed. ‘Wouldn’t worry me,’ she said.
‘Would you like me to?’ said Oats.
‘It’s not my mountain,’ said Granny. ‘I wouldn’t be one to tell people where they should be.’
‘I’ll go if you want me to,’ said Oats.
‘I never asked you to come,’ said Granny simply.
‘You’d be dead if I hadn’t!’
‘That’s no business of yours.’
‘My god, Mistress Weatherwax, you try me sorely.’
‘Your god, Mister Oats, tries everyone. That’s what gods generally does, and that’s why I don’t truck with ’em. And they lays down rules all the time.’
‘There have to be rules, Mistress Weatherwax.’
‘And what’s the first one that your Om requires, then?’
‘That believers should worship no other god but Om,’ said Oats promptly.
‘Oh yes? That’s gods for you. Very self-centred, as a rule.’
‘I think it was to get people’s attention,’ said Oats. ‘There are many commandments about dealing well with other people, if that’s what you’re getting at.’
‘Really? And s’pose someone doesn’t want to believe in Om and tries to live properly?’
‘According to the prophet Brutha, to live properly is to believe in Om.’
‘Oho, that’s clever! He gets you coming and going,’ said Granny. ‘It took a good thinker to come up with that. Well done. What other clever things did he say?’
‘He doesn’t say things to be clever,’ said Oats
hotly. ‘But, since you ask, he said in his Letter to the Simonites that it is through other people that we truly become people.’
‘Good. He got that one right.’
‘And he said that we should take light into dark places.’
Granny didn’t say anything.
‘I thought I’d mention that,’ said Oats, ‘because when you were . . . you know, kneeling, back in the forge . . . you said something very similar . . .’
Granny stopped so suddenly that Oats nearly fell over.
‘I did what?’
‘You were mumbling and-‘
‘I was talkin’ in my . . . sleep?’
‘Yes, and you said something about darkness being where the light needs to be, which I remember because in the Book Of Om-‘
‘You listened?’
‘No, I wasn’t listening, but I couldn’t help hearing, could I? And you sounded as if you were having an argument with someone. . .’
‘Can you remember everything I said?’
‘I think so.’
Granny staggered on a little, and stopped in a puddle of black water that began to rise over her boots.
‘Can you forget?’ she said.
‘Pardon?’
‘You wouldn’t be so unkind as to pass on to anyone else the ramblings of a poor of woman who was probably off her head, would you?’ said Granny slowly.
Oats thought for a moment. ‘What ramblings were these, Mistress Weatherwax?’
Granny seemed to sag with relief.
‘Ah. Good thing you asked, really, bein’ as there weren’t any.’
Black bubbles arose from the bog around Granny Weatherwax as the two of them watched each other. Some sort of truce had been declared.
‘I wonder, young man, if you would be so good as to pull me out?’
This took some time and involved a branch from a nearby tree and, despite Oats’s best efforts, Granny’s first foot came out of its boot. And once one boot has said goodbye in a peat bog, the other one is bound, to follow out of fraternal solidarity.
Granny ended up on what was comparatively dry and comparatively land wearing a pair of the heaviest-looking socks Oats had ever seen. They looked as if they could shrug off a hammer blow.
‘They was good boots,’ said Granny, looking at the bubbles. ‘Oh, well, let’s get on.’
She staggered a little as she set off again, but to Oats’s admiration managed to stay upright. He was beginning to form yet another opinion of the old woman, who caused a new opinion to arise about once every half-hour, and it was this: she needed someone to beat. If she didn’t have someone to beat, she’d probably beat herself.
‘Shame about your little book of holy words. . .’ she said, when she was further down the track.
There was a long pause before Oats replied.
‘I can easily get another,’ he said levelly.
‘Must be hard, not having your book of words.’
‘It’s only paper.’
‘I shall ask the King to see about getting you another book of words.’